The Present Past
by TheBrokenOnes
Summary: John Watson has lived alone in his London flat for three years. Depressed and haunted by memories of his past, he struggles to wake up and face the limited portion of the world he allows himself to experience. He never expected to one day begin to heal. Rated T for language and themes.
1. Chapter One

_You told me once... that you weren't a hero. Um.. there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man... the most human… human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so... there._

_I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

_Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it? Stop this._

* * *

The flat is cold and dark. I haven't bothered to turn on the lights even though night has fallen. I haven't gotten up from the armchair all day. The pajamas I've been wearing for the past two weeks have gotten too big over the past three years. My stomach growls loudly, but I don't pull myself out of my curled position to find something to eat. I know Mrs. Hudson keeps the kitchen stocked, but I haven't the energy or drive to perform the simple task of feeding myself.

The skull has appeared to change pigment, but is merely covered in a thick layer of dust. Sometimes I try to talk to it, to feel some connection to him. But my voice comes out raspy and strained, and the skull never talks back anyway. Only in dreams do I see him: the tall physique, the dark curls, his melodic baritone voice that perfectly complements his pompous attitude.

Compliments.

No, John. Complemented.

You must not refer to him in the present tense.

You must not refer to him in the present tense.

You must-

My vision begins to blur as hot tears interrupt my thoughts. I shiver.

"_I'm a fake."_

My breathing becomes labored and the shivers turn to shakes.

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"_

"_Do what?"_

"_This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

"_Leave a note when?"_

"_Goodbye, John."_

"_No. Don't—"_

"SHERLOCK!" I scream. I sit up quickly and bump my head on the coffee table, but I barely feel it. I claw at my chest, trying to rip out the stabbing pain of losing him again. I'm gasping for air and sobbing uncontrollably. The door bangs open and someone turn on the lights. The next thing I know, I'm crying into Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, clinging to her because I need some proof of reality.

"Sherlock," I choke out between sobs. "Sherlock."

"Shh," Mrs. Hudson whispers. "Shh. I know. I know."

I'm not sure if it's my imagination, but I think I feel a tear drip onto my head.


	2. Chapter Two

My mobile dings for a fourth time. I reach over and grab it. Four texts, all from Mycroft Holmes. Strange. I haven't spoken to or even seen Mycroft since the funeral. I unlock the device and skim through the messages.

_1:30_

_Hello Doctor. I know this is abrupt, but I need to see you immediately. Come visit me in my office as soon as possible._

_- MH_

_1:35_

_You could reply or something._

_- MH_

_1:38_

_I know I haven't given you much to go on, but you need to come. Now._

_- MH_

_1:43_

_John. You need to come to the office now. I cannot stress this enough._

_- MH_

I sigh. What the hell could Mycroft want? Do I even want to find out? I haven't left this flat in months. Maybe I will go. Maybe whatever it is could take my mind away from the memories. I force myself out of bed and search the room for trousers and a shirt. I grab the first pair of jeans I see and pull them on, immediately noticing them slipping off my hips. Damn. I have lost weight. I find a belt in the wardrobe and slip it on. I see something dark on the top shelf and pull it down. When I realize what it is, I stumble back and fall onto the bed.

Sherlock's purple shirt.

My hands begin to shake. No, I berate myself. No. You will. Not. Do. This. Now. I close my eyes and throw the shirt at the wardrobe. I bury my face in my hands and allow myself five seconds to breathe.

One.

Two.

Hands down.

Three.

Four.

Stand up.

Five.

I finally manage to find a grey t-shirt and pull that on as well. It too hangs loosely off my thin frame. I grab my leather jacket and walk down the stairs and out the door.

The sun is bright and Baker Street smells like spring flowers. I try to hail a taxi, but I don't seem to have Sherlock's knack for summoning cabbies. I suppose a walk would do me some good, but Mycroft's office is a terribly long ways away. I shout for a cab one final time and manage to get a ride.

Mycroft is pacing in front of his building. His usually crisp suit and neat hair are rumpled and frazzled looking. He looks greyer than usual. When he notices the taxi, he freezes, clearly trying to compose himself. I pay the cabbie and step out onto the pavement. Mycroft makes no move to greet me, so I just stride over to him. As I get closer, I see that his eyes are puffy and red, as if he has been crying.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft says. "It has been a long, long time."

"Three years," I reply. "So why now? Why not any time before?"

"Seeing you..." Mycroft's voice quavers. "Seeing you only made me think of him."

"Again I ask: Why. Now?"

"Follow me," Mycroft instructs.

The office is down a few corridors and up a few steps. Everything looks just as I remember, and I fight hard to suppress flashbacks. The guards scattered around the building look surprised when they see me, but make no comments to Mycroft. When we reach the office, Mycroft opens the doors, pauses to breathe, and motions for me to enter.

The office is not empty. Someone is already inside, sitting in a chair and facing away from us. His head cocks slightly to one side, the only acknowledgement that we have entered the room. Mycroft closes the doors and clears his throat.

"Er... He's here." Stange. He seems nervous. I've never seen Mycroft like this before. The man stands. He seems to be tall and lanky, but it's hard to tell on account he's wearing a long coat.

Wait.

Long coat.

And the man's hair. It's dark and curled.

I stumble and almost fall. The man whispers something inaudible, and turns.

Words get stuck in my throat and I can only manage to choke out "What." My surprise quickly turns to anger. He looks scared, twisting his deerstalker nervously in his hands, but I don't care. I don't care that he's taller, I don't care that I'm weaker, I don't care. I don't even fully realize what I'm doing until Sherlock Holmes is lying on the ground, and I'm suffocating him.

"DOCTOR," Mycroft booms. I rip myself away from Sherlock, fully realizing the situation. Air is suddenly scarce.

"Sher... Sherlock," I murmur.

Sherlock sits up, rubbing his throat. "I suppose I did deserve that," he croaks. He slowly stands up, glancing nervously at me and Mycroft.

"John-" he starts.

"No," I growl. Standing, I glare at Sherlock. "There is nothing you can say to me."

"John-"

"You let me think you were dead. For three years, Sherlock. Three years!"

"I-"

"Can you possibly fathom the pain you put me through?! This is the most human interaction I've had in months! I can't be bothered to perform necessary tasks because I don't care! Every day was a struggle to even breathe!" I begin to shake, but I don't bother trying to suppress it. Sherlock looks guiltier with every syllable. "I couldn't cope knowing you, the awesome genius and my best friend, were dead! How dare you," I snarl, stepping closer, "allow me to-"

Sherlock interrupts by kneeling and grabbing my shoulders. "John, please. Just listen for a moment. Please." I see fear in his eyes, but I can't be sure if it's sincere. "I had to hide it. Moriarty's men had to be convinced I was dead, otherwise you, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade would all be dead. No one could know. No one. I didn't even tell my own brother."

"But what about me, Sherlock? I thought you had one solitary ounce of caring and sympathy in you!"

"I kept you alive, John." Sherlock is pleading with me now. His grip on my shoulders tightens, and his bright eyes glisten with tears. "I couldn't bear the thought of living without you. Knowing you and Mrs. Hudson were safe and alive was just enough to keep me going. If either of you had died, none of us would be here."

"Sherlock..."

"I know you may not believe me. And I don't care. After three years, I've finally been able to say the words I wanted to say on the phone that day. The things I couldn't say. I know I didn't always show it, but I need you, John. You made me feel alive, and keeping in this secret and keeping away from you, a piece of me has disappeared. I can't go on hiding. Please, John. Please. Please." Silent tears drip off Sherlock's sharp cheekbones. He lets his arms fall and he sits on his heels. He looks ashamed, defeated, and just as scared as when I walked in. Thoughts are spinning through my head like a hurricane, and Sherlock is the center, the eye. As angry as I am, I'm relieved he's back. I kneel in front of him and place a hand on his shoulder.

"I am furious," I start, and Sherlock's head falls. "But," I continue, "I understand why you did what you did, and I suppose I can forgive you." Sherlock looks up at me, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes tightly. I'm stunned. This is so unlike Sherlock. But at least he is showing some feeling. When he pulls away, he looks concerned.

"You've gotten thin, John." I look away. "Have you been eating?"

"Not much," I admit. Sherlock opens his mouth to berate me, but is interrupted by a scream. We both whip around to see Mrs. Hudson, eyes wide, shaking hands covering her mouth. Sherlock stands up slowly and nervously.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he says. Mycroft has been silent this whole time and remains so. He overlooks the scene with a blank expression. Mrs. Hudson simply stares as Sherlock approaches her and hugs her delicately. I feel like I should smile, but it's as though I've forgotten how. After three years of solitude, I've finally got a flatmate and a friend again, but I can't manage to express hapiness. Maybe this hasn't sunk in yet. Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe...

Mrs. Hudson is fussing over Sherlock's overgrown hair and the state of his coat. Sherlock is brushing her off, but I can tell that he's glad to see her. I stand up and walk over to Mycroft.

"Just like old times," I comment.

"Not quite," comes the reply.


	3. Chapter Three

~Two Weeks Later~

I think I'm beginning to understand what Mycroft meant.

Sherlock has been quiet. He hasn't gone outside at all; he doesn't think the public should know he's alive yet. He's been nothing but helpful around the flat. Things are actually put away in a proper manner. There aren't any unusual specimens residing in the cupboards or the fridge anymore, and even the violin playing has been kept to a minimum. I think I hate it.

Sherlock is never neat. He's never cleaned in his life. He is acting strangely, and I don't care if he's trying to make up for his absence. I'd rather have the old Sherlock back. Perhaps I'm being greedy. Can't it be enough for me that he's here? That he's trying? But I guess enough is never enough.

I've had less flashbacks of the day Sherlock jumped, but now am having even more frequent ones of the war. Sherlock is there for every one. He hasn't said a word about them, at least not to me. Nothing seems to phase him. I suppose for that I am grateful.

* * *

I hear a creak and peek around my chair to see what it is. The bathroom door is opening and Sherlock steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist. I stifle a gasp and jump out of the chair when I see his chest.

"Sherlock, what the fuck?" I rush forward and jab a finger at his mangled skin. "What the hell is this?!"

"My chest," he responds.

"I gathered that," I spit, "but what happened to it?!"

"Er..." He fumbles with the towel. "A few scars?"

"This is a hell of a lot more than a few scars, Sherlock." I examine more closely. The flesh looks as though it's been burned and cut and shot at. Multiple times each. "What the hell did you do?" I gently rest my fingers on the skin and Sherlock inhales sharply. The doctor in me is screaming a thousand other questions, but I swallow them all down.

"You may want to sit down," Sherlock tells me.

"You may want to put on some trousers," I tell him. He ignores me and settles down on the couch. I sigh and sit back down on the armchair.

"Moriarty find out."

"What?"

"Moriarty knows I'm alive."

"I'm confused. I thought he was dead."

"So did I. But he found me. Found me in a motel in America, reminding myself over and over that you were alive, and that was what mattered. That one day I might see you again. Anyway. He broke in, his men in tow, simply laughing.

"'Sherlock Holmes,' he said to me, 'it's been a long time.' I wasn't surprised to see him, so I stayed silent."

"When was this?" I ask.

"Three months ago. He had his men take me and the put me in a car. We drove for an hour or so. We finally arrived at an abandoned warehouse. The second I walked in, I knew I was in trouble. The entire space was filled with knives and whips and irons. I was chained to a wall and left alone for two days. Luckily not all of the windows weren't boarded up, so I had some exposure to the outside world and a vague sense of time. Throughout the period of neglect, I heard screams and gunshots from outside. Obviously Moriarty was killing his men for doing something that displeased him.

"At dawn on the third day, Moriarty came in. He was smiling, the sick fuck, twirling a knife in his fingers.

"'So," he drawled. 'You managed to live. How nice. You know, this does change our little agreement.' I ignored him. 'Since you're alive, I could just kill off Johnny boy right now. But I think I'll have some more fun than that.' Suddenly, he ran up to me and slashed my shoulder. He held the bloodied knife to my neck and hissed 'You're in for a world of hurt, Sherlock.' He pulled out a vial and poured cloudy liquid on my shoulder. Obviously lemon juice. I could barely contain a scream.

"I didn't see Moriarty again. He sent his men in once a day for about a month to torture me. The first week was cuts and lemon juice and salt. The next was whips. The third week was burns, and the final week was traumatizing the wounds. Once a week they fed me saltines and a tiny glass of water. I..." Sherlock loses his composure and buries his face in his hands. I get up from the chair and sit next to him on the couch.

"You didn't look in pain when you first came back," I prompt.

Sherlock takes a shaky breath and looks up. "I'm good at concealing pain. But that's beside the point. They only let me go when I swore to never reveal myself to you." He buries his face in my shoulder and breathes slowly. I put my arm around his shoulder and hope that it isn't the one that was cut. My hand rests on his back and I notice how hot his skin is.

"Sherlock..." I start.

"You do not need to lecture me about how idiotic my actions were. I'm fully aware. I just couldn't stand it anymore. It became impossible to stay away. I also thought it would be a good idea to see a doctor." Sherlock looks up at me with impossible eyes. Hurt and fearful and pleading eyes that beg for clarity and forgiveness. He takes his long fingers and gently touches my shirt, right where my scar is.

"You know pain," he murmurs. "I've never had to handle this before. Help me, John. Please."

The doctor in me finally breaks free, and I stand. "First we need to take care of your chest. Which I am only willing to do if you put on a pair of damned trousers." Sherlock smiles slightly and retrieves a pair.

"Lay on the couch," I instruct. "We've got a lot of work to do."


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N: Let me preface this by saying that this story took a weird turn. Sometimes when I write, the story takes a turn that I never expected it would and I surprise myself. Bear that in mind when you read. Thanks!**

* * *

I run down a hill, screaming and explosions engulfing my senses. At the base of the hill, I'm met with a mass of mangled flesh. Those left living shriek my name and reach out to me, their pleading faces slick with blood. My comrades crawl towards me, pulling at my legs and making me fall. I notice a man lying next to me. I grab him to see if he's alive when he bursts into flame. The others combust in turn like echoes and melt into the grass. Smoke rises from the remains and solidifies into the upper half of a naked man. His skin is mangled and burnt and he holds a gun pointed at me. I barely have time to scream when Sherlock shoots me in the shoulder.

There is a hand the same shoulder and I shove it off, shimmying away from it and curling into myself. "John! It's just me," the owner of the hand says. I blink to adjust to the darkness and look to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of my bed. "You were making loud noises and I came in to see you thrashing," he tells me. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a flashback turned nightmare," I mumble, trying to play it off like it was nothing. "No big deal."

"It is a big deal if you're having flashbacks again," Sherlock counters. He shifts so he is closer. "I'm worried about you, John."

"Me? You're the one with the marred chest and obvious psychological damage from that incident and the preceding solitude, not to mention-"

"Shh," Sherlock coaxes. "Shh. Calm down, John. You've been traumatized as well; you did watch me kill myself. And the war..."

We sit silently for a few moments. I think of something, anything to say, but come up with nothing. Finally, Sherlock lies down next to me.

"What're you doing?" I ask, taken aback.

"I'm going to sleep with you," he declares.

"What? Why?"

"In case you have any other nightmares."

"I'm fine Sherlock. Really."

"Really, you're not. Now go to sleep, Doctor. Dream of tea and woolen jumpers."

* * *

I sleep soundlessly for the rest of the night and wake with my head on Sherlock's chest. I quickly sit up and immediately wish I hadn't as my vision temporarily blacks out. I wonder how long I've been like that. Sherlock is still sleeping soundly, and it's a wonder he hasn't woken in pain yet. I blink rapidly and press a finger to my temple and wait for my vision to clear again. When it does, I get out of the bed slowly and walk to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

As I wait for the water to boil, I think on what Sherlock said last night. That he's worried. That I need watching over. It's Sherlock who needs help, not me. Right?

The kettle wails and I pull it off the stove, pouring the water into a mug. I think more as I wait for the tea to steep. If Sherlock was confusing before, it's nothing to the damn enigma he is now. I grab the mug to add cream and sugar, but inexplicable pain stabs my scar and I drop the mug. It shatters and spills at my feet, and suddenly the dark brown tea turns dark red blood, and the mug shards turn into the corpse of one of my best friends from the army. I stare at him in disbelief while another soldier grabs my arm and drags me away.

"Come on, Watson!" he screams, right before he's shot in the head. Brain matter splatters on me and leaves me frozen until more shots are fired. I run with the rest of the men until I fall when a bullet hits me in the shoulder. I scream and hold Sherlock tightly.

"Shh," he whispers. "It's alright. You're safe. There's no war. This is 221B. You're okay. You're okay."

"My friends, Sherlock," I whimper, "my friends."

"I know," he says. "But they're safe now. You're safe."

I bury my face in Sherlock's shoulder and try to control my breathing and swallow back tears. But with the memory of the day fresh in my mind, I can't help it. Luckily no one walks in on us; they'd have a sight to see: John Watson crying like a baby and clinging to the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Time is irrelevant. Sleep comes when I can't focus any longer. Food and drink happen against my will. I can never be sure if I'm fully in reality anymore. Sherlock tells me that it's been a year since he came back, but I don't remember asking a question. Plenty of time, I heard a doctor tell him, for the past to fester and take over. I constantly relive the war and Sherlock's death and the endless solitude. I remember Sherlock apologizing to a mother's child, telling her I can't control myself or my actions and he is terribly sorry that I hit her. Then the girl and her mother both turned into Sherlock and all three jumped of the hospital roof, splattering on the pavement.

I used to know what was real and what was not. I used to know day from night. I used to understand. Now I can barely control myself. When I'm not at war or watching people commit suicide, I find myself crying and clutching to Sherlock. When this happens, I can be sure I'm in reality. He always tells me I'm safe, that he's there and it's okay, but all I believe it that he is there. I remember waking up to see him sitting at the window, his face in his hands. Then I fell asleep again.

Sherlock tells me it's been three months since I last asked.

Sherlock tells me it's been a year and a half since this started.

Sherlock tells me I've been in a coma for a week.

Sherlock holds my hand and cries.

A doctor tells me the hallucinations and flashbacks shouldn't happen ever again.

Sherlock puts a blanket over me.

Sherlock yelps and cries when I finally manage to croak out his name.

Sherlock tells me that it's okay, that he's here.

A doctor tells Sherlock that I will make a full recovery.

Sherlock smiles for the first time in my coherent memory.


End file.
